Western Short StoryNoah Bickford at the Great DivideTom Sheehan

Western Short Story

Noah Bickford was running
ahead of the mad sheriff of Wilcox Springs, Gunther Ambush, and his
underlings, a posse with a completely distorted badge of authority
and an irrepressible need for killing quarry or hanging them as soon
as caught, guilty or not. Whole towns in Arizona believed that
Sheriff Ambush had grown into his family name, assuming what the
name really meant in the cruel world that had sent his father to
prison to die there alone … for a crime that he did not commit.

Ambush wanted nothing
more than to get even with the entire west.

It was widely hoped that
some singular force, like a total town, might rise up and decide
about the criminally-bent sheriff and the cruel gang he led, or at
least draw him and his men into the final showdown. So far in the
malevolent situation, nobody, town or individual, had stepped up to
settle matters. Ambush had a small army at his command, and they
shared in all the stolen or manipulated riches that came into their
phantom coffers.

All of that was in
Bickford’s mind as he fled ahead of Ambush through foothills and a
string of canyons and open valleys in the far western part of the
territory, mountains rising all around him on the high horizon
crisscrossed with a myriad of difficult trails. He made up his mind
that he had get to the big river, set his horse off on its own, head
downstream where he thought Ambush and his gang would never follow
him.

There was no way around
his plight: he had to get to California or Mexico, one way or the
other, to sail on the free and wide seas

As a youngster Bickford
had heard of other crooked or power-searching sheriffs; his father
had told him, “They go with the territory, son, the territory
they’re trying to control. Some want to own the territory, but not
all of them. Just watch for those who want to own more than what’s
theirs. Don’t get in their way.”

Now he was in the way of
Ambush and his well-paid thugs, one young man out ahead of the
sheriff, a chase lasting more than two weeks of a mad dash in the
territory. His crime, perceived by Ambush, was that Bickford was the
only rider they had seen near the site of a deadly encounter on the
trail outside Albertville … driver, shotgun, and four passengers
killed, horses killed in their traces, and all valuables stolen from
luggage or persons.

Ambush’s words were
loud and convincing, as usual, to the hardened members of the crew
and some starry-eyed youngsters who had wandered into the sheriff’s
clutches, often with one way out of the membership … feet first, or
immediately following a bullet fired from an unseen shooter. “That
one was trying to get away from the scene of his crime. He probably
shot the woman last after he took all her jewelry and then hid it
someplace out there on the trail that we have no chance in Hell of
ever finding, so we have to settle for his life for their lives. I
know you all understand what I’m saying.”

The steely eyes put an
end to any doubts about their mission … or the next one most likely
coming down the trail at them. “The lawman’s duty never ends,”
he’d often say at day’s end.

It was therefore most
judicial that he be brought to justice for that crime, the most
suitable suspect; suspects, in Ambush’s mind, were guilty as
perceived, on-the-spot guilty.

Bickford had not seen the
crime but had seen two men ride away from the area, swing about after
making a stop in the foothills, and then rejoin the posse with
Sheriff Ambush. He was convinced it was like a dog chasing its own
tail. There was no two ways about that, and the posse was a
formidable foe, housing its own criminals in its midst.

When the posse spotted
Bickford, within an hour after the crime, the whole gang of them set
out after him. He knew who they were and what they would do, would
have to do, as Ambush said time and again, “Out on the trail it is
hard to keep a man prisoner because there are so many escape loops he
can take.”

After the initial
surprise of the posse getting on his trail and sticking there for
close to two weeks in the range of mountains, Bickford felt the
fatigue coming on him and hoped the posse knew the same exhaustion.

He could only draw on
things he had heard, to guess what Ambush was saying to his minions;
“Keep to it. You’re real hound dogs and when the good people hear
about our capture of the road bandit, we’ll all share the reward
I’m sure the West Coach Company will eventually post on it.” He
laughed insidiously when he added, “You can bet the last coin on
the table they’ll do just what I say or they’ll be a dozen more
robberies just like this one we’re putting an end to.” His eyes
vaguely shifted to the real robbers and killers, essential members of
every one of his posses.

Hearing a disturbing
sound closer to him than he wanted, Bickford turned a tight twist in
the trail, rocky climbs on each side of him, and came face to face
with a young man about his own age. The young rider on a black mare,
Stetson tight on his head as though he was afraid it would fall off,
had a gun in his hand. And he was as wide-eyed as Bickford; both men
surprised at the meeting, both men young.

“Well,” the nervous
posse member said, “looks like I caught me a criminal. Don’t move
a muscle, mister, or you’re dead.”

“You mean dead without
a trial for a crime I didn’t do,” Bickford said. “You don’t
even know who took what from that stagecoach and where they went
after doing what they did.”

“What are you talking
about? The sheriff says you’re guilty as sin, and we caught you in
the act.” He paused and seemed to qualify his conviction, “Well,
almost.”

“The Hell you did. Two
men in your own posse did it and hid some stuff in the hills and went
back and rejoined the posse. Didn’t you or anybody else see two men
come back and mix in the posse?“ He leveled his eyes at the young
posse member as though he was wielding a spade to dig out the truth.

“Sure I did. Moss and
Darwin came back from an assignment the sheriff sent them on.” His
innocence, and ignorance of what the two men did, was easily noted.

“Ever see them go off
before and come back after a spell?”

“Yup, once or twice,
but they’re trusted deputies of the sheriff. Been old hands with
him for a long time.”

Bickford’s questions
were delivered as rapid as gunshots. “So they’re special? They do
special jobs? You think they’re scouts for the posse? You think
that’s what they are? ”

“Sure, why not?”
Ringer asked.

Bickford felt he had made
a cut in the armor of belief, so he explained further, “A posse is
like an arrow. It gets on its mark and stays there. It doesn’t
swing wide, look for things, rush back to tell the sheriff they’ve
found the ones they’re looking for? You think it’s so simple that
they come back and just say, ‘Let’s go get them. We know where
they are.’ Think that’s how it goes?”

“Why couldn’t it be
like that? Like I said, they’ve been with him a long time.”

Bickford said, “They
hid something up in one of the canyons. One of them had to scale the
side of a cliff to hide it in a small cave. I marked the place on the
trail. I can find it again.”

“Why couldn’t you
have hid it?”

“Sure, me spend an hour
or so on the side of a cliff like one of them did, no horse under me,
and your whole crooked crew chasing me and ready to hang me without a
trial because it’d be easier for Ambush to present it that way. Do
you really think I’d take time while being chased to climb up and
down a stupid cliff for a couple of hours and not worry a bit about
getting a rope too tight on my neck? Really think so? Does Ambush
keep mentioning the rewards that come along afterwards?”

“All the time he does,
like it’s a song.” The youngster’s tone revealed he was bending
to rational thinking.

“See,” Bickford said,
“you’re even smarter than I thought you were. What’s your name?
Mine’s Noah Bickford.” He stuck out his hand.

“I’m Josh Ringer,”
came the reply, and the young and suddenly innocent smile crossed his
face as they shook hands. “It’s a lousy way he does business. It
had me thinking a few times and I guess I didn’t think hard enough,
not even about the things I was seeing with Eric Moss and his pal
Darwin and how they seemed out of place. What a fool I’ve been.”

“Lots of fools out this
way, Josh. They know about Ambush, but too many of them are afraid of
speaking up. He has a lot of power to call on. It scares me to think
what they’d do if they catch me.”

“I only saw one
hanging,” Ringer replied. “It was terrible. The man’s boots
were still shaking even when we rode off. But I saw two others shot
down at their campfire, just like they were animals. I got sick
thinking about it.”

“What happens if you
wanted to leave them and they knew it? Would they let you? Ever think
Ambush would say, ‘See you later. Thanks for the company?”

“I don’t want to wait
for that chance. Let’s do it now.”

Bickford said, with
confidence in his voice, “The best thing is to get out of here and
get to the river. Go to California or Mexico, just get away. They’ll
never let us go if they catch us. Court and trial and jury and
sentence would all happen out here, surrounded by no place and no
thing, no witnesses, no noise.”

Ringer swung his horse
around and said, “Let’s go.”

The new pair of compadres
headed toward the river, which Bickford thought was about 20 miles
away. He made sure his weapons were loaded, and Ringer followed suit,
nodding at his new friend with warm acknowledgment, as though he was
saying, “Good advice is welcome anytime.” He also could be
saying, “I trust this fellow more than I could ever trust Ambush.”

They had gone about five
miles when Ringer, looking back down the trail, said, “We have
company, and it looks like the whole posse coming in a bunch.”

Bickford said, “Think
those two gents, Moss and Darwin, are with them? We have to keep them
in mind if they’re not.”

“I’d guess there are
more than a dozen in the pack, so might mean they’re with them, but
I can’t be sure.”

Bickford said, “That
might be a lot easier to swallow than not knowing where they are.”
He tapped his spurs into the flank of the horse and said, “Let’s
hightail it to the river, and hope we have enough of a lead on them
to get downstream. Far ain’t far enough for me. It’s got to be
like that for you.”

Their horses were at a
good run when a bullet hit just over Bickford’s head, and he yelled
out, “I’d say your old pals are still out here. Hightail it!”
he yelled, and spurred his horse. “We got to get to the river,
leave the horses. They’d chase us if we stay in the saddle.”

Bickford spurred the
horse again. “Go!” he yelled and yelled it a second time, “Go!”
The anxiety was firm in his voice. “Go down that pass over to the
left.”

Suddenly, in their mad
dash, ahead of them in the tight confines of the canyon pass, sat a
man high in the saddle, his horse at a standstill, a rifle at his
shoulder, ready to shoot.

Bickford knew he had but
seconds to make some kind of move, a feint, a self-preservation move,
a life-saving gesture. A bubble started in his throat. It jumped up
and down and it disappeared in his chest. A small pain started at his
temples, his mind trying to work, trying to shake loose a good idea.
He flashed back over all the things his father had told him. Why
hadn’t he paid more attention? He needed something now, something
new, something he had never done. What had the old gent said one
time; “Do the unsuspected. Be different. Make them worry instead of
you. Throw them off their stride. Knock their legs out from under
them.”

Bickford knew it was all
in his hands now. Ringer was frozen in his tracks, the reins taut in
his hands, his horse at a standstill.

He spurred his horse,
then jabbed him harder. The animal was off and running, his mane
flying, and his rider was standing in the stirrups, and his hands,
empty of weapons, were raised over his head.

“Duck, Noah!” Ringer
yelled as loud as he could.

In the narrow stricture
of the canyon pass, perhaps only 20 feet wide where his horse stood,
Moss had a rifle to his shoulder, his eye on the sight at the end of
the barrel, and he was standing in the stirrups the same way as
Bickford who was now coming closer to him, his horse’s hoof
clattering loud and clear coming off the cliff faces on either side.

Not sure of what was
cooking in his mind, seeing an image pass in swift flight behind his
eyeballs, Bickford finally ducked as he saw the flash of light at the
bore of Moss’s rifle. He heard the bullet slam by him just over his
head and ricochet off the rock wall.

Coming up from his
crouch, his horse now in full flight, Bickford had two guns in hand.
Knowing he had little chance of hitting Moss, he’d try to use
Moss’s horse to his own advantage; make the horse shy, jump start,
step falsely some way, toss Moss for a loop, or at least make Moss
lose the grip on the rifle, take away a second close aim.

He fired off three shots
from the pistol in his right hand, and two from the left hand pistol.

Flecks of light flashed
up as sparks off the floor of the canyon.

Moss’s horse bolted
sideways. The rifle went flying, and then the horse skittered on the
slick rock floor of the canyon. As the horse started to tumble, Moss
jumped free.

He came up off the ground
to stare at Bickford’s drawn pistols aimed right at him.

Bickford said, “Toss
your gun belt off to the side and back away … away from the rifle
too.”

He nodded at Ringer who
understood the instruction and retrieved the gun belt and the rifle
and took them to his own horse.

“You get ahead of me on
that side,” Bickford said to Ringer. “I’ll settle up with this
gent.”

With all of Moss’s
weapons across his pommel, Ringer started to head down the canyon
trail without saying a word to Moss, whose horse had hurt one leg and
was swaying side to side.

Bickford asked for Moss’s
pistol, took it from Ringer and pulled all the bullets from it. He
tossed one bullet as far as he could back along the canyon, put the
other five in his pocket, and then dropped the pistol on the canyon
floor. His final words to Moss were, “If you ever had a touch of
goodness in your whole body, you’d go find that bullet and kill
your horse. His leg is broken.”

The two new pards fled
down the trail. After many minutes they heard a single shot, dull but
echoing, rise from the canyon walls behind them. Ringer felt a
special feeling come over him.

They finally reached the
river and went downriver a mile or so until they reached a small
cabin on the banking and a small boat pulled up in a breach of rocks.
They swapped the two horses for the boat, but took their saddles.
They headed downstream after Noah Bickford advised the former boat
owner, “If I was you, I’d avoid any men in a posse. They might
not look kindly on you if they find out we have your boat. You might
hide someplace around here until they’re gone.”

The man nodded his
understanding and saw the two young men turn the river bend down
below. He took the horses and hid in a special place known only to
him. All he remembered was what the one called Noah said to his
saddle pard, “You might as well come to sea with me, Josh, if we
can get there. It’s probably better than any of this.” He looked
downriver, at the massive cliffs rising above the river, nodded and
took his argument a little further; “Just look at those cliffs,
Josh, how they leap up. I just know we got a new adventure coming our
way.”

Ringer was mighty glad he
was in good company … with a man who looked out for another man’s
horse, who saw things quicker than he did, and who obviously picked
the best paths to travel. The sea might be truly inviting. It’d be
worth a try.